


life is short

by inber



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Clothing Kink, Coming In Pants, Dirty Talk, Enthusiastic Consent, Fantasizing, Friction Kink, Lace, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Pet Names, Shorts (Clothing), slight cbt, slight degradation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:00:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26607130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inber/pseuds/inber
Summary: “Do you think Geralt will like them?” Jaskier asks, his hesitation blatant in his tone, in his boyish bayside-town eyes.“I think Geralt will lose whatever is left of his tiny fucking mind.”- Jaskier has altered a damaged pair of breeches into something high-fashion and suggestive. Eskel helps him put on the final touches.
Relationships: Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 48
Kudos: 448





	life is short

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stillmadaboutpetra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillmadaboutpetra/gifts).



> This is sort of in the same universe as stillmadaboutpetra's 'The Chanel Boots? Yeah, I am'. They sent me a picture of a pair of ridiculous shorts and we both agreed that Jaskier would absolutely wear them, and it would drive Geralt fucking bonkers. Turns out it has an effect on Eskel too. Shorts are pictured below! Ahuehueheue.

* * *

“Keeping busy, songbird?”

Jaskier makes an ungainly squeak, owlish-wide eyes flicking over to the doorway. Eskel is clearly trying not to loom, nor to block the only exit, but his bulk makes both tasks difficult. A cheeky smile on Jaskier's behalf relaxes him, invites Eskel to step into the provisional workspace that is a cosy nest of Jaskier's creative chaos.

“Darling, I'll never understand how you clever brutes tip-toe around this delightful dilapidated place, truly I won't. I feel like such a trampling clod half of the time. You must teach me your ways.” Jaskier adjusts the fabric on his desk. Snips a stray thread.

Eskel snorts. “Can't have a silent bard.”

“I suppose not.” Jaskier says, smoothing out a pleat. “Someone needs to keep the cheer.”

“I rather meant that you're already a menace. Affording you stealth would only further the danger.”

“A menace--!” Jaskier gasps, theatrically ruffled. Eskel is grinning. “Oh, you are such a ragamuffin, you know that? Can you even flirt beyond teasing?”

“I don't know,” Eskel's voice drops as he steps behind Jaskier, the heat of him taking up the minute subtraction between them; he's bending at the waist, ghost-breath on the conch of the bard's ear, “can I?”

Predictably, Jaskier shivers. Over his shoulder, he studies the flecks of gold within Eskel's irises. It's a fascination, the way they differ most subtly to Geralt's. Chips of abandoned amber on a jewelsmith's table. A rogue vein of sapphire.

“Geralt is going to have a few things to say about this.” Eskel keeps whispering, his baritone compelling, and Jaskier goes all flushed and squirmy with implications of the statement. He realises that the witcher is stroking his latest couture masterpiece.

“Fiddle faddle,” Jaskier clears his throat, “he lost his right to say anything when he used me as bait for a couple of wights, thusly rending my innocent breeches.”

“He did what?”

“It might have been my idea. Maybe. Can't remember.”

“I see.” Eskel strokes a thick thumb across the lace, unable to hide the smile that curls privately in the cradle of his scarred mouth. “You've remade them into something markedly less innocent.”

“Do you think so?” Jaskier sounds pleased. He lifts up the garment, cradling it like a newborn. “They saw battle, and I made beauty out of that, I think. Of course, I did have to bring the hemline up quite drastically...”

“Of course.”

“...and that left me with some room to work with, and I had this lace from a capelet I made for Yennefer. Would have been wasteful to not use it.”

“Very wasteful.” Eskel touches the scalloped edges.

“Do you think Geralt will like them?” Jaskier asks, his hesitation blatant in his tone, in his boyish bayside-town eyes.

“I think Geralt will lose whatever is left of his tiny fucking mind.”

Jaskier claps his hands together. “Oh, good!” Then he gently shakes the fabric out. “I was actually going to try them on for fit. Would you mind helping? It's hard to reach the back by myself.”

Eskel considers for a moment, before nodding his consent. Jaskier makes a happy noise, trotting over to the fireplace to keep warm whilst he undoes his boots and shucks his pants off. He chatters the whole time, and only when he begins to finger the laces of his braies does Eskel avert his gaze, privately vexed.

“No undergarments?” Eskel interrupts Jaskier's stream of consciousness.

“Hmm? Oh, goodness, no. They'd contrast with the lace! How gaudy.”

“What if your cock peeks through one of the slits?”

“Then whoever I am serenading will be a lucky bastard. And owe me more than a few coins.” Jaskier grins, all varlet, carefully shimmying the delicate trousers up his legs. He makes a few adjustments, tugging here and there, before he spreads his arms in presentation. “What say you, darling?”

Eskel half-turns. Now that the once-breeches are on the bard's body, they have become all the more obscene; Eskel can see the flesh of Jaskier's hips peeking naked between artfully spaced slashes, veiled by the dark gauze of the lace. They could hardly be accused of being clothing. In truth, the gilded garment reminds Eskel of fine Cintran lingerie, the kind worn by courtesans in brothels that he'd be too cautious to enter, even if he did have the coin to spend there.

“Well?” Jaskier prompts, fidgeting.

“You'd best not wear them on the road,” Eskel says, throat closing dryly, “they'd not survive much more than a strong breeze.”

“They aren't travelling clothes, silly.” Jaskier sing-songs, turning this way and that as he vainly tries to admire himself. There is a looking-glass in the room, most likely rescued from storage by a patient Geralt hoping to placate his beloved bard. It's clouded with age. What use has a witcher for a mirror?

“What are they for, then?” Eskel asks, shuffling closer unbidden. Jaskier is gravitational like that. Helplessly, Eskel orbits, taking a small cushion hedgehog-pricked with pins when the bard hands it over.

“Performance.” Jaskier says, running a finger down one of the pleats.

“Public or private?”

Jaskier shivers again, glancing at Eskel over the broad curve of his shoulder. “In a best outcome, the first, and then the second. In that order.”

Eskel grunts, something close to a chuckle, and pinches the fabric together at the back. Cinches the waistband tighter. “You're missing a button, little one.”

“Nothing gets past you, does it?” Jaskier teases, the pitch of his voice sailing a fraction higher. “Can't decide if I want to do it up with a golden clasp, or sew in a few eyelets for black satin ribbon.”

“Mmm.” Eskel considers, the barest brush of his palm against Jaskier's backside making the bard tense up, almost forgetting himself completely to lean into Eskel's large hand. Jaskier's pulse flutters feather-wings high in his throat, fanning his breath out in minute gasps. “The ribbon.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Eskel slides the touch around Jaskier's hip, resting his fingers on the beginning of Jaskier's Adonis' belt, finding them a home in the divot there. “A man likes to unwrap a gift.”

“Does he?” Jaskier rocks a little, the back of his head bumping into Eskel's clavicle. Eskel does not push him away; he ducks his head, noses firmly into the nape of Jaskier's neck, whorls of breath greedy. Jaskier smells like clean soap and shaving oil and the wild alchemy of Geralt's skin.

“He does,” Eskel says, “he takes his time. Pulls the bow open. Unlaces the ribbon from each eyelet. The best gifts are worth waiting for.”

Jaskier squirms against the hard plane of Eskel's chest. His blood-bitten lips are parted, high cheekbones unfolding with a spring-rose blush. Eskel slides his firm hand lower, runs it down the length of Jaskier's needy prick. Jaskier ruts forward with a choked-off groan.

“How does that feel, little one?” Eskel's question is all smoke and husk, “The slight catch of that slutty lace? The slip of the silk? I think you enjoy the mixed sensation quite a lot.”

“Eskel,” Jaskier whimpers, reaching behind him to fist the rough fabric of Eskel's jerkin, “ _please._ ”

“You couldn't possibly go on-stage in these, Jaskier. You'd be hard as soon as you put them on. Everyone would see your twitching prick through the fabric. Everyone would _know_ how fucking thirsty you are for it. You want to perform like that, hmm? Leaking and wanton in front of a whole crowd?” Eskel nips the lobe of Jaskier's ear. Cups his balls between his legs.

Jaskier spreads his feet obediently. His knees jerk again, deferential to Eskel's touch, like Jaskier's puppet-strings are wound 'round the witcher's fingers. A thin line of spittle drips from the bounce of Jaskier's lower lip.

Neglecting to answer earns Jaskier a pointed flick to the tip of his trapped cock, and he yelps at the sting that throbs quickly into pleasure. “Y-yes.”

“Yes, you'd like that?” Eskel prompts, circling a tight grip around Jaskier's dick, squeezing rough through the fabric. In his palm, Eskel can feel Jaskier's heartbeat.

“O-oh! Yes, fuck, I'd... I want them to see. W-want, to perform for them.” Jaskier's eyes roll back. He humps forward just as Eskel releases him. Jaskier's want is expressed in a plaintive groan.

“Geralt would never let you.” Eskel growls, rough lips on Jaskier's neck. “Nor I, nor Lambert. If you're going to be a needy slut, it'll be for us.”

“Oh, please,” Jaskier sobs, “I wouldn't. Promise.”

“Don't believe you.” Eskel gathers the waistband of the pants again, pulls them tighter. Jaskier's cock stands pronounced at the front of the fabric, wetness darkening the fabric. “You're too proud, too showy. Aren't you?”

“No,” Jaskier stands on tiptoe, leans back harder, desperate for it, “no, swear it. Eskel, I-I'm—I need--”

“You always need, little one. Don't think I don't know it. But you've had enough of my generous hand today. I think you can rub your prick against that lascivious lace you've sewn and get off that way. Come in your pants when I say so. Don't you?”

“Hnng,” Jaskier says, experimentally thrusting, the thick head of his cock dragging across the textured fabric, “yes, yes I'll—I'll be good, I can be good.”

“Know you can,” Eskel encourages, gripping the band tighter, “know you'd strut all peacock-pretty on that stage in front of me and my brothers. When would you lose it, Jaskier? Would you come in the middle of a song? Doubt you'd hold out until the end. Not with all of us watching.”

“Fuck!” Jaskier keens, the rhythm of his hips faltering, “Fuck, I—I can't, I--”

“Come for me, little one. We're all watching. Sing for us.”

Jaskier unfurls in Eskel's strong grip, legs thrashing and tensing. His prick swells fat, pulses streams of come, drips wet through the mesh-stretched gap. Jaskier cries incoherently through the firestorm of his orgasm, letting Eskel's low humming soothe him limp and content. Eskel drops with him to the rug, cradles him precious in his strong arms.

“I... made a mess.” Jaskier notes weakly, breath-starved and dazed.

Eskel laughs. He peeks down at the soaked fabric, and kisses Jaskier's cheek. “Least they only need a wash. Believe me when I say that Geralt won't be as kind to that lace as I was.”

“He'd not dare ruin them.” Jaskier moans, affronted.

“We'll see, songbird. Put that ribbon on, and we'll see.”


End file.
